


i got a look at you

by cat_in_the_rain



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, One Shot, i love zhenya and want to be her wife, remember when i said this was going to be a multichapter well i lied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 10:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17078327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_in_the_rain/pseuds/cat_in_the_rain
Summary: “What are you scared of? Are you afraid that you won’t get back to where you used to be?"Zhenya looked at the interviewer. His stare were too searching, too focused.  He had a biting smile.“I don’t think about that right now. I only try to move forward.”





	i got a look at you

**Author's Note:**

> Mandatory disclaimer that rpf is under no circumstances a reflection of real life and also that I do not skate and therefore have no idea if any of my technical descriptions are actually accurate. Literally all of my fs knowledge is derived from obsessively watching my faves and lurking on r/figureskating. I tried my best…  
> 

“What are you scared of? Are you afraid that you won’t get back to where you used to be?"

Zhenya looked at the interviewer. His stare were too searching, too focused. He had a biting smile.

“I don’t think about that right now. I only try to move forward.”

\---

Skating was counting. Spins were an exercise in counting the seconds until you were done spinning. Jumps were nothing but counting the revolutions until gravity caught up with you. In the back of her mind, Zhenya could recall a time when skating had been something more, something dynamic and weightless. But here in the Cricket rink at 1:34 am, twelve toeloops in and one day after the Internationaux de France, she knew only the steady thump of her own count.

She counted herself through the takeoff. One: speed into the turn. Two: lean in, bend. Three: toe pick. Four: up. She felt herself lift and turn in the air -- once, twice, three times -- and fall side-first into the ice.

As she crashed down, Zhenya thought of Skate Canada. She remembered calling Brian to her room and opening the door with tears dripping down her cheeks. He had stayed up with her till the first hours of the morning, sat with her and waited patiently as she tried to explain her feelings in a language that felt sticky on her tongue.

“Are you hungry?” Brian had asked her through her hiccups.

Zhenya had faltered. Eteri had never let skaters eat outside of strict mealtimes, ever, not even when they were injured or distraught. When Zhenya had lost to Alina at Europeans, Eteri had brought out a packet of powder and recommended that she stay on a powdered nutrition-based diet until Pyeongchang. Zhenya hadn’t known what to make of Brian and the rest of the Cricket Club. Their frequent smiles were jarring, and their offers of food or comfort seemed like tests of her discipline. On some level, she knew that this was just how Toronto worked: firm kindness was the club's norm; Canadians, as a rule, were kind. She still always expected some bitter hit after their affection, though -- a harsh remark, a comparison to Alina, a sour dismissal.

Zhenya nodded carefully.

“I am hungry, but it is late tonight, and tomorrow is the free skate. I cannot eat.”

“That’s true,” Brian had said, “But I have something that you might want to look at.”

From his bag, he had taken a small lump covered in paper. As he peeled back the wrappings, something had filled the room -- the smell mustard and brisket and spice, a taste intoxicating and forbidden. Zhenya had imagined, then, that if she were in an anime, drool would be dripping down her chin and her eyes would be little hearts. She had been appalled.

“Brian, I cannot eat that before a competition. That is a sandwich.”

“I know. But I saw you staring at the delis when we stopped by Montreal. You’ve been in Quebec for days and you still haven’t had smoked meat. That’s unacceptable. It is right before your free skate, though, so don’t have any of the bread. But if you like how it smells, you should try the meat. Just a little bit.” Brian’s smile had been warm and genuine.

Zhenya had laughed and felt curious tears prick at her eyes.

With some difficulty, she had reached for the sandwich and picked off some of the brisket. It had tasted both foreign and familiar at the same time. There was something comforting about the taste of mustard on meat, the lingering scent of woodsmoke. As had she swallowed, she had felt something unravel -- a knot in her stomach, a tension she hadn't even noticed was there. As the last of the smoke-scent disappeared down her throat, Zhenya and Brian sat in a warm silence. Brian turned to her.

“You have two options. You can give up on the Grand Prix and skate the free without trying. You will feel relieved from a lot of your pressures, at least temporarily. Or you can go out there tomorrow and fight. I want to make it clear that I won’t pressure you either way. This is your decision, and I will respect your choice.”

Something unspoken had passed between them that night.

Here, after France, Zhenya looked across the rink from where she was sprawled across the ice. Somewhere outside, a security guard was rumbling into his walkie-talkie, his voice distorted. The cold seeped through her practice clothes, crept up her limbs, her neck. She flopped onto her back and counted her breaths.

One, two, three.

She got up.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are better than sex <3  
> someone please teach me how to use past perfect tense im so bad please help  
> the conversation at the beginning with the interviewer is from an actual interview that Zhenya did after IdF!  
> 


End file.
